35. Rico #3
The Harringtons roam the same circles as my family.
Same overpriced schools, same insufferable country clubs, same endless galas designed to inflate egos and shrink bank accounts.
None of it shaped us into better men. It just taught us to smile through bullshit and throw money at problems until they disappeared.
I, however, was the outlier. Kicked out of every institution by week two, usually for punching the first asshole who breathed wrong in my direction.
Papa eventually stopped donating to keep me enrolled, realizing the investment had worse returns than crypto.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down. Another text from my wife. Chipper and borderline deranged in its enthusiasm.
Allie: Dinner’s going to be amazing. Been perfecting the sauce all week. Can’t wait for you to try it! Don’t forget the Merlot!
The sauce. The one she’s been obsessing over for apparent months, experimenting with ingredients ranging from cinnamon to anchovies to—help me—chocolate. Like an episode of Chopped on crack.
My subconscious has the audacity to store these details despite my best efforts to tune her out during dinner.
Mental clutter. Useless information. Like knowing the square footage of every Bennetti-owned building in Manhattan or the exact number of security cameras covering the Harrington flagship hotel.
No practical benefit to my job, just noise rattling around in my head.
"You're smiling." Dom's words make my eyes snap away from my phone.
I can't go into the breakdown of how ridiculous that statement is, but one thing I can emphasize is I. Don't. Smile.
But I am, according to the reflection in my phone's now black screen. Fuck me. What has this woman done to me?
Only one solution to this nightmare. It's time to remind my wife of the asshole she married. Be late to dinner, piss her off, and enjoy the sight of her all flushed and furious—her most fuckable look. Not that I’d ever admit it. Yeah, that’ll do the trick.
I glance back at my screen. “I’ll fix the code tonight,” I mutter more to myself than the room. I’ll barricade myself in my office at home, ignore her, and—most importantly—not have sex with her. One night without her wrapped around me like a human sedative. I can do it.
My eye twitches at the thought, but I ignore it. So do my balls, which are already filing a formal complaint.
Last week, when she got her period, I nearly told her I didn’t care, and we’d do it, anyway. That’s how far gone I am—contemplating sex with zero reproductive benefit.
“Perfect.” Evander stands. “I’ll update my brother.”
That’s when it hits me.
“Evander,” I say. Everyone stops. Even Jaxon, who typically gives zero shits unless someone mentions billable hours, peeks up. Yeah, I get it. I don't voluntarily engage in conversation. Desperate times.
Evander turns, brows lifting. “Yeah?”
“Via Napoli. Who owns it?”
Confusion flickers in his eyes before they narrow into focus. “Griffin. Why?”
Of all the Harringtons. This will certainly cost me.
“I need to buy it.”
Silence. Then Alex drops his pen, the metallic clank echoing as it rolls off the marble table and hits the floor. His jaw practically unhinges. If this were a cartoon, his tongue would unfurl onto the table like a red carpet.
“You want to buy a restaurant?” Alex's voice rises, hesitant. “You don’t even eat in restaurants.”
I shrug, ignoring the fact he’s not wrong. “My wife wants to run one. She’s a talented chef. Could be the executive chef.”
Even Evander stares at me like I’ve sprouted a third head. That wouldn't surprise me. Allie’s already stolen my peace, my sanity, and apparently, my grip on reality. Her making me sprout an unwelcomed appendage isn’t far off.
“Why not just ask Griffin to hire her?” Alex suggests, ever the pragmatic one. This from the man who bought his wife’s publishing company to fast-track her promotion and didn’t tell her. Dom’s no better—he purchased an entire art gallery for his wife, like it was a coffee table on clearance.
“I want to own it. Give her full control.”
And, more importantly, keep her busy. Long hours, constant stress, and peak dinner service right when I’d normally be subjected to her doe-eyed dinner invitations and incessant text updates.
She’ll crawl home exhausted, leaving minimal opportunity for our genitals to collide in yet another round of mind-blowing, sanity-stealing sex.
It’s a flawless strategy. Buy her a restaurant, reclaim my autonomy, and finally sit my dick down for a long, strict conversation about who’s really in charge.
Evander chuckles, shaking his head. “You realize Griffin will charge you over market value just to prove a point, right? He’s generous like that.”
“I don’t care. Talk to him. Tell him I want to buy it. Today.”
Evander blinks. “Today? As in…now?”
“Preferably within the hour.”
He pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the screen. “I’ll see what he says. Will you be ready to place an offer?”
I nod. “Whatever he wants, I’ll pay.”
Jaxon leans in, tugging my sleeve like an annoying toddler. I glare, and leans back, letting me embrace my crazy. “Whatever he wants?”
“Write the damn check. It’s worth every penny.”
A few hundred thousand or over a million? Pocket change. If it buys me peace, distance, and the chance to get my shit together, it might be the best investment I’ve ever made.